


Of Gods and Men

by mktellstales



Series: Archived Work: 2013-2015 [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Allusions to John/Mary, But it should feel like the middle ages, Godlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, No real time period, Paganism, Questions of Faith, but no actual relationship, priestlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-28 18:16:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3864847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mktellstales/pseuds/mktellstales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is happening in Father Watson's village - people keep dying. Will a handsome stranger, who claims to be more than he appears be able to stop the deaths? Does the Father know more than he's letting on? And what of the attraction neither of them can deny?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just something from the other side of my imagination. I've always had an interest in gods/demons/angels/etc, and it brought me to this little piece. Let me know what you think! The second half should be up by 5/9 - just needs some polishing.

Mary Morstan had always been sick. From a young girl, the doctor was always at her bedside; a candle always lit for her vigil. Each winter that came and then melted into spring brought with it a miracle that she survived.

Her right foot was crumpled, and she covered it with an elegant sock of rose-colored wool and braced the ugly disfigurement with wooden splints and tightly tied twine. She had a cane her father carved from the oak tree in their back garden that she limped along with on the occasion she got to leave the cottage.

She was thin, and her growth had been stunted by the disease that ravaged her body, but her soul was beautiful.

She recited her favorite stories heard in the church to the critters that flocked to the garden window when she lined the sil with fresh fruit and grains. She helped her mother bake the bread and tend to her younger siblings with a bright smile on her face.

And on Sunday's, she stayed behind after the service to help Father Watson polish the pews and put away the sacraments of the evening.

She enjoyed Father Watson's company, and the stories he had to tell.

Abandoned at the abbey when he was just a small child, Father Watson grew up knowing God was his destiny. When  Father Dimosis passed in one of the villages below the hill of the abbey, at the tender age of nineteen, he took over the vacant position.

Through the years, Father Watson considered his parishioners family, but none more than Mary. She captivated him. Not her illness or her disfigurement, but her optimism and happiness in spite of it.

They were close, perhaps closer than a pair should be. His hand brushed hers during their clean up, his stories went on until it was late enough for extra candles to be burned. There was no carnality to speak of - neither would dare, but Father Watson did love her.

And so, when a terrible winter came that wanted to claim her life once and for all, he prayed. When he ran out of prayers, and subsequently was beginning to run out of time, he turned to a much more desperate measure.

And then, he watched as she grew healthy; as her foot found shape, and her body straightened out. Mary didn't just survive, but she thrived. She threw away the sock and the walking stick and embraced the miracle she thought had befallen her.

Soon, she fell in love with a man who could give his heart, and Father Watson joined them as eternal husband and wife on a sunny, spring morning.

He found happiness in her happiness, and on the rare occasion she stayed behind service to help get things back in order, and she would brush stray hairs from in his face, and call him John, as he had asked of her,  he knew that the price he had to pay, was worth it.

 

***

"Thank you for coming. Father."

John tugged at the fabric of his draping green robes as he stepped over the threshold of the home he had been visiting. He turned, and clasped the hands of the woman escorting him within his own, and gave her a solemn, reassuring smile.

"Of course. Recite the prayers I've told you, and find comfort there. We will all miss young Margaret. She was a good girl."

"Thank you." the woman said, blinking back tears and letting go of him.

He nodded and turned once again to leave, bible snug underneath his arm. Hers was not the first home he had visited that morning with the same message of grief and hope, and he knew that there would be more visits to come in the following days. Death was a regular traveler through their village, and it was his duty, seemed to be his only duty, to comfort those it had touched.

John walked through the village square on his way to the foot of the twin hills where his cottage sat. People milled about, trading vegetables for meats and ale for company. They greeted him as they passed, knowing that any moment, it could be them with the need for a visit.

At the shop front where Mrs. Wickers sold her chickens, John was greeted with a happy smile that made him stop in his tracks and diverge from his path.

"Good afternoon, Mary." he said to her.

"Good afternoon,  Father." she reached into the basket over her arm and pulled out a shining red piece of fruit, "Would you like an apple?"

"I couldn't possibly take that from you."

She laughed, "I have more; more than Henry and I need. Please, take it."

John reached for the apple held out to him, and slipped into the wide pocket of his robe, "Thank you. Your kindness never goes unnoticed."

"By you or by God?"

"Both."

Mary blushed, and dipped her chin against her chest to keep from John seeing the state he left her in. When she felt as though the heat had left her fine face, she lifted her head again to meet with John's gaze but was interrupted by piercing cries across the square.

Both John and Mary rushed along with the crowd to where the cries were coming from and found a body behind the tavern, face down in the muck from the morning.

The woman who was shouting, leaned her hysterical against John, and he passed her off gently to Mary, who wrapped her arms around the other's head, and stroked her hair.

John turned the body over - a man; old, known to spend most of his time in the tavern. His death was unwelcome, but not as unexpected as the others.

"It's a plague!" someone from the crowd yelled, "A curse! We're being punished for our evil deeds!"

John stood, and faced the villagers, "Leave the preaching to me, Anderson." he said. "Yes, our village has seen too much death in recent seasons, and some of them are too heart wrenching to be explained - they seem impossible to explain, but this man here was old, he was a drunk;  you all know this to be true. It was only a matter of time before we found him in such a condition."

"And what of the others? What of the young girls, and the strong men? Of the mothers who left behind their babies?"

"They are unfortunate," John said. "I will go tell his sons of this tragic incident. Please go back to your day."

John gave Mary a grateful smile as he passed, and she in turn gave him a regretful one, still comforting the woman in her arms. He made his way back through the square, and through the streets of cottages until he found where he was trying to get to.

He told the two sons inside, and though they were saddened by the news, they were not surprised. They thanked John and followed him back to the tavern where they collected his body to be washed and prepared for the burial service that would come in the next days.

John watched as the young men, who had already lost their mother and a sister, carry their father back the way they had come. He dispersed the small crowd that was still left standing, and looked for a sign of Mary, but found none. She and her basket had gone home to her husband, and so, John too, was going to go home as well.

He was just outside the square, a sort of quiet coming upon him as he spotted the fence around his garden, when  he spotted an unfamiliar man dressed all in a rich black - trousers tight to his legs, flat shirt open into a v at his chest, and buttons of silver on his velvet jacket. John also caught notice of a knife in his boot. As John got closer he saw the sharp lines of his pale face, and a bed of curls that reminded him of the ink he mixed at the abbey.

"Can I help you?" he asked the stranger when he had approached him.

"Your village. Someone has brought a curse onto it."

John shook his head and laughed away the accusation. He went to unclasp the lock of his gate but was stopped by the strangers hand upon his own.

"There's death here."

"There's death everywhere," John said to him.

"This is different. It's deliberate."

"And how do you know this?"

"Because I've seen it before; I've been following it from village to village trying to stop it."

"Sir, I do believe you're mad."

"Perhaps, but that's secondary to the things I'm trying to tell you."

John sighed. He should have turned the stranger away, and left it alone, but the more he stared into his eyes, shining bright like the green and blue lights that blazed through the night sky some winters, the more he found he was incapable of turning him away; mad or not.

"This isn't something we should discuss out here. Come inside."

The stranger followed John through the gate, and up the walk to his cottage. John immediately lit his candles and set them about. The home was only one room with a heavy table in the center and his bed in the corner with the hearth between the two. He had a rocking chair by the window, and three other wooden chairs around the table.

He offered to take the man's jacket and hung it on a hook next to his bed before taking off his own robe to let his body breathe through his simple trousers and shirt. He then gathered a bunch of wood and sticks from beside the hearth and threw them in to start a fire.

John then sat down at the table and laid out his hand for the stranger to do the same.

"What is your name?" he asked him.

"Sherlock."

"I'm Father Watson. You may call me John, however."

"John-" Sherlock said, leaning his elbows on the table, "I mean what I say. Someone has brought a curse to your village."

"I'm not saying that I believe you, but what sort of curse are you speaking of?"

Sherlock was quiet for a long number of seconds. He stared at the flicker of the flame between them, his elbows on the table and his fingers steepled underneath his chin.

"May I see your church?" he finally asked.

John was taken aback by the question, "What? I thought you had a curse to tell me about?"

"I do, but I'd like to see your church first. It's just next door is it not?"

"Yes, but-"

"Good." Sherlock stood from his chair, and picked up the candle at the table, and headed to the door.

John took a moment to comprehend the situation and then he too picked up a candle, and reached into the pocket of his robe for the key, reaching instead to the other and finding the apple Mary had given him earlier in the day. He set the apple on the table and retrieved the key.

He and Sherlock crossed the land between John's cottage and the church. It was small, but plenty big to fit the people of the village. It was built of white stone and steepled at the top to fit the bell. John unlocked the heavy, wooden door, and they stepped through the archway inside.

There were seven rows of pews on either side, and a walkway that led to the altar where there were a stone pulpit and a large cross. John stood in the back as Sherlock used the light from his candle to aid the thinning sun shining through the small stained glass windows at either side of the room while he took in his surroundings.

"It's a beautiful church, John. A Father's church is a reflection on himself, his devotion to God and to his people. You care very much about both."

"I do."

Sherlock walked up onto the stage and smoothed his hand along the altar before stepping back down and finding the small box that comprised the confessional.

"This is where they come. To tell you what they've done wrong; to confess the sins they've been tricked into believing they've committed, and you, in return, you forgive them?"

"God forgives them."

"May I confess something to you now?" Sherlock asked, turning to find John's eyes in the dim.

"You may."

"Your far more handsome than I was expecting. You aren't meant to be so as a man of God, and I've never come across a priest in any village in any land who looks as you do. It caught me off guard - makes concentrating on my purpose here more difficult."

John felt his cheeks flush, felt the heat radiate down his neck and up to his ears. He had never received a compliment such as that - not even Mary had outwardly spoken of John's appearance or any pleasure she might have derived from it.

"Which part of that is the confession? That you find me handsome, or that you're letting it distract you?"

"I suppose it wasn't a confession in the sense you're accustomed to. I'm not ashamed by either fact. I just wanted to let you know."

"So, it was a compliment rather than a confession?" John asked, feeling amused.

Sherlock smiled, "Yes, I suppose it was."

He walked away from the confessional and found a seat in the second row of pews, "come have a seat with me, and I'll explain to you why I'm here."

John did as was asked of him, hesitantly sitting next to Sherlock on the pew. If John were to make a confession, it would be that he found this man to be handsome in the same way and that he too, wasn't ashamed of that.

"Long ago, before humans decided to assign one man to be in charge of everything, there were scores of gods. Gods of life, of love; gods that protected your crops and your livestock; you're children, and there were gods in charge of death. Some came to comfort you and hear your last mortal thoughts, and others to bring you to the afterlife."

A light of realization went off inside John's head, "I see, so you're a pagan."

"I'm not anything. And I wasn't finished."

"I'm sorry. Do continue."

"There was one death god very good at what he did. He listened, he comforted, and it was time to go, he passed them on to his partner, waiting to lead them through the threshold of life into death. Only, after some time, he noticed that there were a great number of people who begged for their life to be spared, just for a while longer. He found this curious and soon started to ask them what they do for the opportunity to bypass death. The answer, of course, was anything."

Sherlock held the golden bowl the candle was melting into in his palms, and some of the wax, dripped from the rim and landed against his skin. John didn't know what came over him, but he reached out and peeled it away. Sherlock's eyes followed the path of John's fingers as he delicately rolled the wax off from Sherlock's hand and against the space between his thumb and index fingers. Sherlock then took in a breath and continued.

"So, he began to make deals. It would have been simple to ask for their souls in exchange for more time, but he wasn't never interested in simple, so he asked to be allowed to take the souls of others; the number of years you wanted to live were equal to the number of innocent people were willing to let die. Most people stopped believing in the gods of old; a few still exist for those pagans, and he still exists, because human beings have an intense fear of their own mortality."

"That's a lovely story, Sherlock-"

"It isn't a story!" he shouted, his voice echoing against the walls. "The words in that book you carry underneath your arm, that you ask your followers to have faith in; those are stories. Your God doesn't exist; he's a manifestation of all humankind's fear, and of an empire's need to rule the world."

"I see you're passionate about your religion. I'm passionate about mine as well. I understand."

"Your passionate about the wrong thing, I'm afraid.  Your God is a fraud, but the one I speak of is very real, and he's here in your village."

"Why is it your duty to stop him?" John asked, still trying to make sense of this man's delusions.

Sherlock looked into the flame, and then back to John, "Because I am one of him. I was his partner. I stood between the threshold and waited for him to bring me their souls. I walked with them and calmed their fears. And when word spread what he was doing, what he was making me do without my knowledge, they were going to kill him. And I- I told him to run."

"I'm sorry, but are you telling me I'm meant to believe you're an ancient god? Because you look no different than any man I should pass on the street."

"That's how I want you to see me."

Sherlock set the candle down behind him and grabbed at John's hand, pressing it hard against his chest, underneath his shirt.

John's eyes widened, both at the sudden gesture, and the intense heat he felt burning at the beads of sweat on his palm.

"You're hot. Do you have the fever?"

"It's my natural temperature...And this-" he slid John's hand down his chest and over his erratic, beating heart.

John retracted his hand before it started on fire, and looked down at how red it was.

"I am ancient. I have seen the world before it was new. I made a mistake when I let him go, and I need to correct it."

"How are you going to find him?"

"I find who summoned him. I heard that there was a girl here- she was expected to die but recovered; flourished."

Of course, he was talking about Mary.

"She was crippled - disfigured since birth. Death was always on her doorstep, she was ready for it. It was a miracle what happened to her, but not one she asked for."

"Everyone is ready for death until they're staring it in the face."

"How do you know he hasn't gone? You've yet to catch him, perhaps he's gotten what he wants and has moved on."

"A bargain like that, he isn't even close to finished."

Sherlock picked the candle back up and stood from the pew, prompting John to do the same.

They walked out of the church, John locking it up and went back to the cottage.

The fire had died down, but it had warmed the small space enough that John didn't poke it back to life.

"I have funeral rites to layout, but you're welcome to take my bed for the night. Would you like a crust of bread before turning in, or some wine?"

"Sacramental?"

John laughed, "I haven't blessed this."

"I'll pass on the bread and wine, and I thank you for the offer of your bed."

John nodded and turned down the blankets. John nodded and turned down the blankets. He tried not to watch as Sherlock peeled his clothing away from his body, including all of his undergarments, and he pretended not to take notice how attractive the man's naked form was in the firelight.

He set his attention to the pages of his sacred book rather than Sherlock's arse as it bent into the air upon his climb into John's bed. He really had no need to read over the rites- with so much death recently he had the words and the prayers of rest memorized, but he needed something to keep his mind away from the body in his bed. It was no use, however, as John's eyes flitted across the room to see the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. He laid so still it was if he wasn't even real. John would have believed as much if he couldn't hear his heartbeat through the crackle of the dying flames.

John's curiosity was getting the better of him, and when he couldn't take it any longer, he crossed the small space from the table to the bed. He was only going to look. There was nothing wrong with admiring the lines and angles of another human being; nothing wrong with admiring the creation of a fellow man. Though, Sherlock wasn't just a man, was he? He was beyond John's plane of existence, a figment that could only be real if someone believed him to be.

He stood with his shins against the frame of the bed, his hand hovering in the air, and feeling the heat that rose from Sherlock's body. He dared not to touch though he could feel his resolve on the matter start to crack.

"Do you know what my people believed about sex?"

Sherlock's voice startled John and he stumbled backward, falling into a small chair. Sherlock was out of the bed, and standing just in front of him, their toes overlapping.

"W-what?" John asked.

"You and your kind, you've made sex into nothing more than a necessary evil. A man fucks a woman to create new life - he isn't even supposed to enjoy it, and she certainly isn't either. But in my time, sex was what brought you closer to the gods."

He pushed his chest over his torso, bending close to John's face so that their breath could intertwine, or at least it would have if John were bothering to breathe.

"The time, the place, the reason; it didn't matter." Sherlock's long fingers ran down the side of John's face, and John finally inhaled a sharp, gasping breath. "It didn't matter if a woman wanted to be with a woman....if a man with a man - as long as you were satisfied."

John swallowed and tried to hold Sherlock's gaze while he felt the man's fingers travel slowly down his face, over his body, and across the seam of his trousers. It was the most delicate brush, but the intent was clear, and no one, besides John himself, had dared to touch him there before. His eyes fluttered closed, and his breath stopped again, as he allowed himself to give into it, but then, suddenly, it was gone. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock back in the bed as though none of it had ever happened. John started to think that maybe it hadn't - that he was in some sort of waking dream.

He stood from the chair and pulled himself back together so that he could step outside for some much-needed air. As his hand was on the handle of the door, Sherlock's voice rung through the room once again,

"Be careful, Father."

John hesitated, feeling each vibration of each word burrow down into the bones of his spine. He took another moment and then managed to find the strength to open the door and leave.

The sun was long gone and John used the dim of his candle to light his path. Hr was following the downtrodden grass and dirt behind his cottage into the forest that divided the village from the one that neighbored. He followed the memorized trail into a clearing that was surrounded by a wall of tall limestone that gave way to an opening at the bottom lit with a yellow glow.

John followed the light inside and found a man sitting around a small fire. The man looked up and smiled at John with a familiar toothy grin. He had beady brown eyes, and was dressed in garments to befit royalty, not something a man squatting in a cave should be in, but then, he was so much more than what he appeared to be.

"There's someone here looking for you," John said.

The man fiddled with a stick he was holding in his hands, "Is there?"

"He says his name is Sherlock - that he knew you, that he is one of you. I thought you were the last."

"I'm one of the last.." He threw the stick down, bored with whatever entertainment it was providing him. "Did you tell him that I'm here?" he asked.

"No. He said he plans to stop you, that he's been following you for years."

The man sighed, "I know he has. It was a risk staying here for so long, but your offer was so delicious."

"Maybe we call it off now. I can't have my entire village dead, and you can get out ahead of Sherlock; find someone else to charm under your promises."

"I'll leave any time you'd like. I'll just be taking the girls soul with me."

"No," John said, firmly.

"Fine. Yours then."

John was quiet. He looked from his feet to the flames of the fire, and then to the man's face; red and unholy in the light.

"I thought not,: he said. "Don't worry about Sherlock. I'll make myself scarce, the deaths will stop, and he'll be on his way. Then, our contract will continue."

"For how much longer?"

"Until you and she are the only two left alive."

John closed his eyes tight and pinched the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb. He knew the stakes when he made the deal, but at the time it didn't seem so real, it didn't seem important when Mary was breaths away from taking her last. Even when the first started dying, John was too distracted by Mary's recovery to care, but as he watched people he knew, people he absolved and cared for die for his own selfish needs, it became harder to accept, but it was done; signed by his own blood.

"Go home, Father," the man said. "Enjoy a few days of peace."

John nodded, and he left the man in the cave. He took the path back to his cottage, and when he got there, Sherlock was asleep, the fire completely gone. He pulled a rolled blanket from underneath the bed and laid it across the floor for himself to sleep on, using his robe as cover from the night chill. 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

There was a somber feeling the next morning that John could feel from the village as he walked from his cottage to the home of the man who had died. Sherlock silently followed him and walked back to the church with the crowd as if he were one of them as if he had reason to be as affected by the death as they were. John thought back to what he had told him about himself and supposed that maybe death was something he understood well.

The village lined behind John as he led them down the dirt covered path through the village square to the church as he recited the prayers and the rites of the dead. He held open the doors for the sons to carry their father through and helped to lie him across the raised altar, where he said a few more prayers, and then was carried to the graveyard, where a grave had already been dug for him. He was lowered into the ground, and the dirt covered over his body, forever gone with those before him.

John gave his final rite, offered his time for comfort, and left his followers to grieve. He took his leave outside, feeling Sherlock's eyes follow him until he  found Mary out of the crowd,  away from her husband. He made his way to her.

"Beautiful as always," Mary said of the service.

"It's hard to see the beauty in the turmoil," John told her.

She nodded, and  twisted the fabric of her skirt in between her fingers, "Who is that man?" she asked, pointing to the twisted tree that set in the garden of the church where Sherlock was leaning against, watching the two of them.

"He's no one," John answered, "Just a wandered. I've offered him food and shelter a few days. He'll be gone soon enough."

Mary's hand let go of her skirt, and she gently placed it on his shoulder, "Such a kind man John Watson."

"Only employing my duty as a man of God."

"Even without God, you'd still be kind."

"Thank you, Mary."

Although, he knew none of it was true.

As they stood together, Sherlock started to come their way, and the nerves in John's body started to flame with a fire that nearly burst when he stopped just close enough for a finger to brush against his own.

"I've heard you're a bit of a miracle," Sherlock said to Mary.

"I had a miracle done to me, sir." she said.

"A lot of people ask God to spare them, why do you think he chose you to answer?"

"I didn't ask."

"Not once?"

"If I ever prayed for myself, it was for death to come, not to spare me."

Sherlock looked at her, curious, trying to decipher if she was telling the truth or not. She didn't seem a dishonest woman.

"Alright, Sherlock," John said, feeling the heat of contention rise between the two of them, "Let's leave Ms. Mor- Mrs. Andrews alone. You can help me ready the church for tomorrow."

"I can do that." Mary chimed in.

"It's alright, Mary. He needs to earn his keep. Go and enjoy your afternoon."

Mary regretfully smiled and took her leave. John and Sherlock passed by the few people still lingering and went into the church, closing the doors behind him.

"You didn't have to be so accusatory to her," he said.

"She was the only lead I had."

"I told you it wasn't her. Now, here, sweep the dirt away."

John held a broom out of to Sherlock and was startled when Sherlock's hand wrapped around his rather than the wooden handle.

"Sherlock-"

John tried to protest, but Sherlock didn't budge. He smelled like the parts of the Earth - freshly tilled soil, new grass, the lingering petrichor of stones. It made John think of heaven each time he took in a breath.

"You're nervous," Sherlock said, leaning in close to John's mouth, his intention clear.

"I've never-"

"I know."

"I mean I've never even thought about it - not even with Mary. I found her beautiful, and I enjoyed her company, but I never...Only you-"

"Me what?" Sherlock asked, his mouth parted, and his lips almost touching John's.

"I want to always be looking at you. I want to feel you. I want - I want to kiss you."

Their foreheads fell together, and John found his lips parted along the open bow of Sherlock's, breathing in his breath. His heart was beating rapidly with fear - not a fear of the pleasure Sherlock was offering him, but a fear of being on the edge of giving in to it.

He knew that he was already living a sin, that he made a deal with what was close enough to the devil, but it wasn't for him. Truly, it wasn't.

It was for Mary.

But this, giving into Sherlock, giving into his own carnal desires. He couldn't.

"I can't do this," he said when he felt the weight of his ties lighten against his waist of his robe.

"Because your God tells you not to?"

"Yes."

"John, I am a god, and I am telling you that it's okay to want me, to kiss me, to fu-"

Sherlock's voice was swallowed away by John's mouth closing over his. The kiss was tentative, hesitant, lips just slowly mashing together. John had never kissed before, never thought about how he would do it, but as he took a breath and threaded his shaking fingers through Sherlock's hair it didn't seem such an impossible feat.

When Sherlock parted his mouth farther and pushed his tongue to the seam of John's, John opened his as well. The sensation was strange, but he knew that he needed more. His fingers tightened in the curls, his back straightened to better reach Sherlock's height, and a spark ran through him that made their pace quicken. Still, as his robe opened and fell to the floor, it wasn't enough.

His body was shaking with the want for more. Sherlock broke their kiss, and gently stroked the flush of John's cheek. "It's alright," he whispered.

"It isn't. I'm losing control."

Sherlock grinned, "That's good."

He stepped away and began to push the ivory buttons of his shirt through their holes. His skin was milky and blemished with spots and scars. John didn't think that a god would have the flaws of a man, but then he couldn't believe a man would be as flawless as Sherlock was.

Sherlock pulled John's hand to his chest, forcing his palm to spread open upon it. "Let go of yourself, and give in to me."

John didn't feel as though he had a choice. He brought his other hand to rest with the son still at Sherlock's chest and he moved them - one climbing up as the other went down, worshipping each flex of muscle, each heartbeat. No prayer, no ritual felt as good as Sherlock's skin did underneath his hands. He started to wonder what it might taste like, and he dared to bend his head and press his lips against the hot flesh, dared to swipe his tongue over the bud of a nipple, which drew out a moan from the other man.

It was a beautiful sound.

Sherlock pulled John's face away from  his body and kissed him before pushing him down into the hard, wooden pew behind them. John thudded against it and was pinned in place by Sherlock's knees pushing hard against either side of his thighs.

"I've come across men, and I've come across women who've intrigued me, but none of them have captivated me the way that you do," Sherlock told him.

He pulled John's shirt over his head and nibbled at the lobe of his ear. "There's something in you, John, that I need to have for myself."

Sherlock rocked his hips and lined their groins together. John cried out from the fantastic relief that coursed through him.

"Take it," he said, breathless. "Take all of it; all of me."

They kissed with fervor and with abandon. Sherlock gripped the back of the pew until his knuckles were drained of their color, rocking his body so hard against John that the man forgot the difference between pleasure and pain - maybe there wasn't any.

Beads of sweat ran down Sherlock's face, his teeth were grit together while his lips parted enough to let harsh breaths come and go. The sweat curved over his chin and down his impossibly long neck.

"You're exquisite," John found himself exclaiming.

Sherlock smiled, and wrapped his hands lightly around John's throat and pressed his thumbs just beneath the lump of his Adam's apple. There was a tightening in the pit of his stomach that he couldn't stop. It grew until it was so taut that finally, it snapped.

"Oh, God!" he yelled.

There was a moment where they fell against each other and caught the breath trapped somewhere outside their lungs. John traced the pad of his index finger along the lines of Sherlock's back

"Don't regret this, John," Sherlock said. "You did nothing wrong."

"I won't."

They sat in an embrace a while longer before John edged his way out from underneath Sherlock and pulled himself back together. He gave the church a glance and deemed it good enough for the next morning's services - there was nothing he could do to strip away the tarnish of sin he let happen there anyway.

He and Sherlock returned the cottage where John lit a fire and poured some drink, turning his thoughts to Sherlock's mission in the village.

"Can he be killed?" John asked, and set a cup down in front of Sherlock. "He is a god after all?"

"A blade exists that could kill anyone. Even a god."

"The one you keep in your boot?"

"Yes."

"And what will happen once you do?"

"No one will die who shouldn't, and the one you should have, will."

John bit on the nail of his finger. He needed to tell Sherlock, he needed to make him see that he should just move on, forget everything and let the bad deed John brought into his village play itself out.

"I have to confess something to you," he said.

Sherlock looked away from where he was staring into the fire to look at John, His pale skin was red from the heat, and it glowed with the last vestiges of the setting sun.

"Well, what is it?" he asked when John said nothing more.

"It was me who made the deal."

"You were sick?"

"I didn't do it for me. I did it for Mary."

Sherlock was quiet. If he was disappointed, John couldn't see it on his face. Nor could he see any anger. He saw nothing.

"That was a very stupid thing for you to do," Sherlock finally said.

"I know, but I couldn't let her die. I love her."

"You aren't supposed to."

"I wasn't supposed to be with you in the church either, but it still happened."

"You're not a very good man of God, are you?"

John sighed, "There's more. Last night, after you'd fallen asleep, I told him that you were here. He's gone into hiding until you leave."

"Hmm. That was stupid of you too."

"I know that, but I couldn't let her die."

"She was meant to!" Sherlock roared, leaping up from the chair by the table and looming tall over John. "And what was your plan anyway? Wait for her husband to die and then take her for yourself?"

"No. No. I just-"

"Couldn't let her die," Sherlock finished for him. "Well, Father, she's going to, so you better make peace with that."

"Isn't there any other way?" John asked.

"Tomorrow, you are going to take me to him, and I'm going to end what I should have a long time ago."

"He said that he would leave without her, without anyone else if I gave him my own soul."

"No," Sherlock snapped. He lowered down to the flats of his feet and ran his hand through the graying blonde of John's hair, "You aren't meant to die now.

He titled John's head and bent his own down to kiss him, "Tomorrow," he said.

"Yes. Okay. Tomorrow."

Their shadows played across the darkening walls of the cottage; Sherlock's hands lifting John's shirt over his head, John's tongue daring to lick a stripe along the long tendons in Sherlock's neck. As the flames in the heart died, the flames inside of themselves grew hotter and hotter with each touch, each kiss, and each plea for more.

***

In the morning, John woke to find Sherlock already dressed and at the table, the heel of his boots upon the wood. He was slicing an apple with a small knife John kept on the mantle and plucking the thin pieces of pale flesh in his mouth.

"Are you ready?" he asked, upon seeing John next to him.

"Right this second?"

"The sooner that we do this, the sooner it will all be over."

John sighed. He wanted it over; he wanted his village back at peace, but he knew what the cost of such a desire was.

"Alright."

Sherlock tipped the chair back onto the floor and set the knife down on the table along with the rotting core of his apple.

They walked

"You've given yourself too much power, and I should have stopped you, but I-" Sherlock picked up Moriarty's hand where it hung at his side, and entwined their fingers, "I admired you so much."

"You could have come with me. We were always good together."

"We were. Until you decided that the rules didn't apply to you."

Moriarty slipped their fingers apart, "So, now you're going to punish me. If you kill me, Sherlock, I'll take him with me."

"You won't. Take the girl. She was meant to die anyway. Leave John."

"Leave him for you?" Moriarty asked.

"Just leave him."

"Mmm. You, then?"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said and lifted the blade into the air.

John watched as the silver shone in the firelight and cast an incandescent shadow across the walls of the cave. He thought that Moriarty would put up more a fight. He seemed so desperate to live longer than he already had, but instead he only stood there, back stiff, chin high up in the air, and held his breath until Sherlock's blade pierced through his heart, and he lit up in a brightness John had never seen before and was gone.

He watched Sherlock fall to his knees in the dirt, and though tears were starting to form in his eyes, thinking of the woman who had probably fallen dead just at that moment, and crossed to crouch next to him.

"Are you alright?" John asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm fine."

Sherlock turned and wiped a tear away from John's eye, "She'll be alright, wherever it is she's gone to."

"I know. What about you; where are you going to?"

"Home."

"I don't know what I'll do now."

"Go back to being a man of God."

John fondly smiled and pressed his lips to Sherlock's cheek, "I think I'm a man of a different god now."

"I'll hear your prayers anytime, Father."

"Will I ever get to see you again?"

"In your dreams."

Sherlock took John's mouth, and smiled against his lips when John deepened it, and grasped his hands in his own. Too soon their fingers slipped away from one another, and John turned to look at something; to look at nothing, while he thought about the next thing to say, but when he turned back, he was alone in the firelight.

 

***

 

On the day of the funeral, John said his goodbyes to Mary before the procession through the streets started. He held her hand, still soft and barely gone cold. He brushed her hair back from her face and gave her forehead the most gentle of kisses. All he had done, all he sacrificed, and he still lost her in the end.

When he couldn't bear it any longer and when her husband started to peer through the window of the garden he began the ceremony; what was likely to be the last one for an age. He and the man she had been allowed to love carried her through the square and up the path to the church where she stayed for the final rites and goodbyes. John said his last prayer, gave his final farewell and helped to cover her body in a blanket of dirt.

He did his best to listen to the sadness of others, ignoring his own, and finally when the day was done, he retired to his cottage.

Everything felt so empty. He read from his book but found no comfort - not like he used to. The fire in the heart was still burning hot, but John felt no more need to be awake to feel it. He crossed the room to his bed, stripped down to his bare skin and climbed underneath the cover.

He didn't know if Sherlock meant what he said about being able to see him in his dreams, but John didn't think it would hurt to try. When he closed his eyes, and sleep overtook him, what he saw was Mary. She was vibrant and beautiful and above. Wrapped in a blue dress, and holding a basket of red flowers, she curled her finger for him to come closer. He was afraid, but he did so anyway.

"Mary -.." he started, but was hushed by her finger over his lips.

"Shh. I'm okay. For the first time ever, I'm truly at peace, John. Do you have any idea the burden I felt having been bestowed a miracle when I asked for none?"

"Is it lovely; where you are?"

"As lovely as the summer breeze on the stoop of your church."

John smiled. Those were always his favorite days.

"Don't fret over me," she said, "I'm fine."

Mary pushed up on her toes and softly kissed him. "Goodbye now."

She was gone, and John was left in a void of darkness inside his own mind. He walked through the blank space waiting for something ti appear, but the travel seemed to be hopeless, and it lasted forever. He was sure to wake before he found Sherlock.

h trudged along the blackness until a familiar sight came into view. It was the forest behind his cottage, and it was as new as Spring. The trees were lush and grown and the berry bushes were ripe with red and blue. John followed the path he knew so well, bathed in sunlight, to see where it was going to take him. He saw smoke off in the distance  up toward the hill where the Abbey sat.

John diverged from the path and followed it until he came to a clearing just below the foothill. There was a small fire, a ring of mossy logs, goblets of wine, fresh fruit - some of which he had never seen before, and in the center of it all  was Sherlock, stretched along the grass draped in a fine, white linen.

"I found you," John said, coming to sit next to him.

"I stayed close, hoping you would notice."

John laughed, "I got a little lost."

"So, I see."

Sherlock picked up the goblets and handed one to John. It was a delicious, smooth brew as if the grapes had just been picked and squeezed into the glass. They ate and they drank, and when there was nothing left, John laid down next to Sherlock.

"This isn't real, is it?" John asked. "I'll wake up and none of it will have ever happened."

"It's real," Sherlock told him.

"How will I know?"

Sherlock  kissed him; slow and long. He pulled John up from the grass and into his lap. He undressed him so that the breeze washed over his skin and dug his fingers into the muscled flesh of John's shoulders. He sucked hard at John's neck, leaving bruises and creating moans.

"You'll know," he whispered.

They made love to each other against the Earth for what John thought was forever, and yet, when his eyes opened to the darkness of his own bedroom, wasn't nearly long enough. He lied under the covers and stared at the ceiling. It wasn't real - it couldn't have been. It was only a dream that he would revel in until the end of time.

John ran his fingers along the edges of his body where he imagined Sherlock had touched him. He crossed the delicate pads over the skin of his neck and flinched at a dull ache that penetrated along the tendons. He did his best to glance down and saw an angry edge of purple. He smiled. and pressed his finger harder into the bruise until he couldn't stand the pain anymore.

And as he dressed and faced the day anew, as he bought his daily bread from the market, and sat with Mary's grave, as he prepared sermons, visited with followers, he slipped his finger underneath the collar of his shirt every so often, and pressed against the memory just to make sure it was still real - to hold him over until he could meet Sherlock again with the coming of sleep.


End file.
